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Title: The Guns of Bull Run
A Story of the Civil War's Eve

Author: Joseph A. Altsheler

Posting Date: April 25, 2009 [EBook #3653]
Release Date: January, 2003
First Posted: July 3, 2001
Last Updated: January 28, 2004

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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THE GUNS OF BULL RUN

A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR'S EVE

by

JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.
THE GUNS OF SHILOH.
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.
THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.
THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.
DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.
COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.
MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.
JULIANA, Mrs. Mason's Devoted Colored Servant.
COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason's Regimental Commander.
COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles, a Southern Regiment.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the Invincibles.
ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.
PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.
WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.
DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.
GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.
FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.
ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.
TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.
TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.
SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.
IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis' Nephew.
AUNT "SUSE," A Centenarian and Prophetess.
BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.
JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.
JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.
DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.
ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.
JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.
JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.
JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.
JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.
WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.
MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.
HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.
DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.
VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.
JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.
CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.
COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.
CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.
JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.
JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.
MR. CULVER, A State Senator.
MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.
ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.
JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.
U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.
ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.
STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.
PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.
GEORGE H. THOMAS, "The Rock of Chickamauga."
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.
A. P. HILL, Southern General.
W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.
GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.
AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.
TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.
J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.

JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.
RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.
JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.
WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.
SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.
LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.
BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.
NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.
GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.
DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.
W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.
JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.
P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.
WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.
JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of the United States.

And many others

IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

BULL RUN
KERNSTOWN
CROSS KEYS
WINCHESTER
PORT REPUBLIC
THE SEVEN DAYS
MILL SPRING
FORT DONELSON
SHILOH
PERRYVILLE
STONE RIVER
THE SECOND MANASSAS
ANTIETAM
FREDERICKSBURG
CHANCELLORSVILLE
GETTYSBURG
CHAMPION HILL
VICKSBURG
CHICKAMAUGA
MISSIONARY RIDGE
THE WILDERNESS
SPOTTSYLVANIA
COLD HARBOR
FISHER'S HILL
CEDAR CREEK
APPOMATTOX

CONTENTS

I. NEWS FROM CHARLESTON
II. A COURIER TO THE SOUTH
III. THE HEART OF REBELLION
IV. THE FIRST CAPITAL
V. THE NEW PRESIDENT

VI. SUMTER
VII. THE HOMECOMING

VIII. THE FIGHT FOR A STATE

IX. THE RIVER JOURNEY
X. OVER THE MOUNTAINS
XI. IN VIRGINIA
XII. THE FIGHT FOR THE FORT
XIII. THE SEEKER FOR HELP
XIV. IN WASHINGTON
XV. BATTLE'S EVE
XVI. BULL RUN

THE GUNS OF BULL RUN

CHAPTER I

NEWS FROM CHARLESTON

It would soon be Christmas and Harry Kenton, at his desk in the Pendleton Academy, saw the snow falling heavily

outside. The school stood on the skirt of the town, and the forest came down to the edge of the playing field. The great
trees, oak and ash and elm, were clothed in white, and they stood out a vast and glittering tracery against the somber
sky.

The desk was of the old kind, intended for two, and Harry's comrade in it was his cousin, Dick Mason, of his own

years and size. They would graduate in June, and both were large and powerful for their age. There was a strong family
resemblance and yet a difference. Harry's face was the more sensitive and at times the blood leaped like quicksilver in
his veins. Dick's features indicated a quieter and more stubborn temper. They were equal favorites with teachers and
pupils.

Dick's eyes followed Harry's, and he, too, looked at the falling snow and the white forest. Both were thinking of

Christmas and the holiday season so near at hand. It was a rich section of Kentucky, and they were the sons of
prosperous parents. The snow was fitting at such a time, and many joyous hours would be passed before they returned
to school.

The clouds darkened and the snow fell faster. A wind rose and drove it against the panes. The boys heard the blast

roaring outside and the comfort of the warm room was heightened by the contrast. Harry's eyes turned reluctantly back
to his Tacitus and the customs and manners of the ancient Germans. The curriculum of the Pendleton Academy was
simple, like most others at that time. After the primary grades it consisted chiefly of the classics and mathematics. Harry
led in the classics and Dick in the mathematics.

Bob Turner, the free colored man, who was janitor of the academy, brought in the morning mail, a dozen letters

and three or four newspapers, gave it to Dr. Russell and withdrew on silent feet.

The Doctor was principal of Pendleton Academy, and he always presided over the room in which sat the larger

boys, nearly fifty in number. His desk and chair were on a low dais and he sat facing the pupils. He was a large man,
with a ruddy face, and thick hair as white as the snow that was falling outside. He had been a teacher fifty years, and
three generations in Pendleton owed to him most of the learning that is obtained from books. He opened his letters one
by one, and read them slowly.

Harry moved far away into the German forest with old Tacitus. He was proud of his Latin and he did not mean to

lose his place as first in the class. The other boys also were absorbed in their books. It was seldom that all were
studious at the same time, but this was one of the rare moments. There was no shuffling of feet, and fifty heads were
bent over their desks.

It was a full half hour before Harry looked up from his Tacitus. His first glance was at the window. The snow was

driving hard, and the forest had become a white blur. He looked next at the Doctor and he saw that the ruddy face had
turned white. The old man was gazing intently at an open letter in his hand. Two or three others had fallen to the floor.
He read the letter again, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket. Then he broke the wrapper on one of the
newspapers and rapidly read its columns. The whiteness of his face deepened into pallor.

The slight tearing sound caused most of the boys to look up, and they noticed the change in the principal's face.

They had never seen him look like that before. It was as if he had received some sudden and deadly stroke. Yet he sat
stiffly upright and there was no sound in the room but the rustling of the newspaper as he turned its pages.

Harry became conscious of some strange and subtle influence that had crept into the very air, and his pulse began

to leap. The others felt it, too. There was a tense feeling in the room and they became so still that the soft beat of the
snow on the windows could be heard.

Not a single eye was turned to a book now. All were intent upon the Doctor, who still read the newspaper, his

face without a trace of color, and his strong white hands trembling. He folded the paper presently, but still held it in his
hand. As he looked up, he became conscious of the silence in the room, and of the concentrated gaze of fifty pairs of
eyes bent upon him. A little color returned to his cheeks, and his hands ceased to tremble. He stood up, took the letter
from his pocket, and opened it again.

Dr. Russell was a striking figure, belonging to a classic type found at its best in the border states. A tall man, he

held himself erect, despite his years, and the color continued to flow back into the face, which was shaped in a fine
strong mold.

"Boys," he said, in a firm, full voice, although it showed emotion, "I have received news which I must announce to

you. As I tell it, I beg that you will restrain yourselves, and make little comment here. Its character is such that you are
not likely ever to hear anything of more importance."

No one spoke, but a thrill of excitement ran through the room. Harry became conscious that the strange and subtle

influence had increased. The pulses in both temples were beating hard. He and Dick leaned forward, their elbows upon
the desk, their lips parted a little in attention.

"You know," continued Dr. Russell in the full voice that trembled slightly, "of the troubles that have arisen between

the states, North and South, troubles that the best Americans, with our own great Henry Clay at the head, have striven
to avert. You know of the election of Lincoln, and how this beloved state of ours, seeking peace, voted for neither
Lincoln nor Breckinridge, both of whom are its sons."

The trembling of his voice increased and he paused again. It was obvious that he was stirred by deep emotion and

it communicated itself to the boys. Harry was conscious that the thrill, longer and stronger than before, ran again through
the room.

"I have just received a letter from an old friend in Charleston," continued Dr. Russell in a shaking voice, "and he

tells me that on the twentieth, three days ago, the state of South Carolina seceded from the Union. He also sends me
copies of two of the Charleston newspapers of the day following. In both of these papers all despatches from the other
states are put under the head, 'Foreign News.' With the Abolitionists of New England pouring abuse upon all who do
not agree with them, and the hot heads of South Carolina rushing into violence, God alone knows what will happen to
this distracted country that all of us love so well."

He turned anew to his correspondence. But Harry saw that he was trembling all over. An excited murmur arose.

The boys began to talk about the news, and the principal, his thoughts far away, did not call them to order.

"I suppose since South Carolina has gone out that other southern states will do the same," said Harry to his cousin,

"and that two republics will stand where but one stood before."

"I don't know that the second result will follow the first," replied Dick Mason.

Harry glanced at him. He was conscious of a certain cold tenacity in Dick's voice. He felt that a veil of antagonism

had suddenly been drawn between these two who were the sons of sisters and who had been close comrades all their
lives. His heart swelled suddenly. As if by inspiration, he saw ahead long and terrible years. He said no more, but gazed
again at the pages of his Tacitus, although the letters only swam before his eyes.

The great buzz subsided at last, although there was not one among the boys who was not still thinking of the

secession of South Carolina. They had shared in the excitement of the previous year. A few had studied the causes, but
most were swayed by propinquity and kinship, which with youth are more potent factors than logic.

The afternoon passed slowly. Dr. Russell, who always heard the recitations of the seniors in Latin, did not call the

class. Harry was so much absorbed in other thoughts that he did not notice the fact. Outside, the clouds still gathered
and the soft beat of the snow on the window panes never ceased. The hour of dismissal came at last and the older
boys, putting on their overcoats, went silently out. Harry did not dream that he had passed the doors of Pendleton
Academy for the last time, as a student.

While the seniors were quiet, there was no lack of noise from the younger lads. Snowballs flew and the ends of red

comforters, dancing in the wind, touched the white world with glowing bits of color. Harry looked at them with a sort of
pity. The magnified emotions of youth had suddenly made him feel very old and very responsible. When a snowball

struck him under the ear he paid no attention to it, a mark of great abstraction in him.

He and his cousin walked gravely on, and left the shouting crowd behind them. Three or four hundred yards

further, they came upon the main street of Pendleton, a town of fifteen hundred people, important in its section as a
market, and as a financial and political center. It had two banks as solid as stone, and it was the proud boast of its
inhabitants that, excepting Louisville and Lexington, its bar was of unequalled talent in the state. Other towns made the
same claim, but no matter. Pendleton knew that they were wrong. Lawyers stood very high, especially when they were
fluent speakers.

It was a singular fact that the two boys, usually full of talk, after the manner of youth, did not speak until they came

to the parting of their ways. Then Harry, the more emotional of the two, and conscious that the veil of antagonism was
still between them, thrust out his hand suddenly and said:

"Whatever happens, Dick, you and I must not quarrel over it. Let's pledge our word here and now that, being of

the same blood and having grown up together, we will always be friends."

The color in the cheeks of the other boy deepened. A slight moisture appeared in his eyes. He was, on the whole,

more reserved than Harry, but he, too, was stirred. He took the outstretched hand and gave it a strong clasp.

"Always, Harry," he replied. "We don't think alike, maybe, about the things that are coming, but you and I can't

quarrel."

He released the hand quickly, because he hated any show of emotion, and hurried down a side street to his home.

Harry walked on into the heart of the town, as he lived farther away on the other side. He soon had plenty of evidence
that the news of South Carolina's secession had preceded him here. There had been no such stir in Pendleton since they
heard of Buena Vista, where fifty of her sons fought and half of them fell.

Despite the snow, the streets about the central square were full of people. Many of the men were reading

newspapers. It was fifteen miles to the nearest railroad station, and the mail had come in at noon, bringing the first
printed accounts of South Carolina's action. In this border state, which was a divided house from first to last, men still
guarded their speech. They had grown up together, and they were all of blood kin, near or remote.

"What will it mean?" said Harry to old Judge Kendrick.

"War, perhaps, my son," replied the old man sadly. "The violence of New England in speech and the violence of

South Carolina in action may start a flood. But Kentucky must keep out of it. I shall raise my voice against the fury of
both factions, and thank God, our people have never refused to hear me."

He spoke in a somewhat rhetorical fashion, natural to time and place, but he was in great earnest. Harry went on,

and entered the office of the Pendleton News, the little weekly newspaper which dispensed the news, mostly personal,
within a radius of fifty miles. He knew that the News would appear on the following day, and he was anxious to learn
what Mr. Gardner, the editor, a friend of his, would have to say in his columns.

He walked up the dusty stairway and entered the room, where the editor sat amid piles of newspapers. Mr.

Gardner was a youngish man, high-colored and with longish hair. He was absorbed so deeply in a copy of the Louisville
Journal that he did not hear Harry's step or notice his coming until the boy stood beside him. Then he looked up and
said dryly:

"Too many sparks make a blaze at last. If people keep on quarreling there's bound to be a fight some time or

other. I suppose you've heard that South Carolina has seceded."

"Dr. Russell announced it at the school. Are you telling, Mr. Gardner, what the News will have to say about it?"

"I don't mind," replied the editor, who was fond of Harry, and who liked his alert mind. "If it comes to a breach,

I'm going with my people. It's hard to tell what's right or wrong, but my ancestors belonged to the South and so do I."

"That's just the way I feel!" exclaimed Harry vehemently.

The editor smiled.

"But I don't intend to say so in the News tomorrow," he continued. "I shall try to pour oil upon the waters, although

I won't be able to hide my Southern leanings. The Colonel, your father, Harry, will not seek to conceal his."

"No," said Harry. "He will not. What was that?"

The sound of a shot came from the street. The two ran hurriedly down the stairway. Three men were holding a

fourth who struggled with them violently. One had wrenched from his hand a pistol still smoking at the muzzle. About
twenty feet away was another man standing between two who held him tightly, although he made no effort to release
himself.

Harry looked at the two captives. They made a striking contrast. The one who fought was of powerful build, and

dressed roughly. His whole appearance indicated the primitive human being, and Harry knew immediately that he was
one of the mountaineers who came long distances to trade or carouse in Pendleton.

The man who faced the mountaineer, standing quietly between those who held him, was young and slender, though

tall. His longish black hair was brushed carefully. The natural dead whiteness of his face was accentuated by his black
mustache, which turned up at the ends like that of a duelist. He was dressed in black broadcloth, the long coat buttoned
closely about his body, but revealing a full and ruffled shirt bosom as white as snow. His face expressed no emotion, but
the mountaineer cursed violently.

"I can read the story at once," said the editor, shrugging his shoulders. "I know the mountaineer. He's Bill Skelly, a

rough man, prone to reach for the trigger, especially when he's full of bad whiskey as he is now, and the other, Arthur
Travers, is no stranger to you. Skelly is for the abolition of slavery. All the mountaineers are. Maybe it's because they
have no slaves themselves and hate the more prosperous and more civilized lowlanders who do have them. Harry, my
boy, as you grow older you'll find that reason and logic seldom control men's lives."

"Skelly was excited over the news from South Carolina," said Harry, continuing the story, which he, too, had read,

as an Indian reads a trail, "and he began to drink. He met Travers and cursed the slave-holders. Travers replied with a
sneer, which the mountaineer could not understand, except that it hurt. Skelly snatched out his pistol and fired wildly.
Travers drew his and would have fired, although not so wildly, but friends seized him. Meanwhile, others overpowered
Skelly and Travers is not excited at all, although he watches every movement of his enemy, while seeming to be
indifferent."

"You read truly, Harry," said Gardner. "It was a fortunate thing for Skelly that he was overpowered. Somehow,

those two men facing each other seem, in a way, to typify conditions in this part of the country at least."

Harry was now watching Travers, who always aroused his interest. A lawyer, twenty-seven or eight years of age,

he had little practice, and seemed to wish little. He had a wonderful reputation for dexterity with cards and the pistol. A
native of Pendleton, he was the son of parents from one of the Gulf States, and Harry could never quite feel that he was
one of their own Kentucky blood and breed.

"You can release me," said Travers quietly to the young men who stood on either side of him holding his arms. "I

think the time has come to hunt bigger game than a fool there like Skelly. He is safe from me."

He spoke with a supercilious scorn which impressed Harry, but which he did not wholly admire. Travers seemed

to him to have the quiet deadliness of the cobra. There was something about him that repelled. The men released him.
He straightened his long black coat, smoothed the full ruffles of his shirt and walked away, as if nothing had happened.

Skelly ceased to struggle. The aspect of the crowd, which was largely hostile, sobered him. Steve Allison, the town

constable, appeared and, putting his hand heavily upon the mountaineer's shoulder, said:

"You come with me, Skelly."

But old Judge Kendrick intervened.

"Let him go, Steve," he said. "Send him back to the mountains."

"But he tried to kill a man, Judge."

"I know, but extraordinary times demand extraordinary methods. A great and troubled period has come into all our

lives. Maybe we're about to face some terrible crisis. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," replied the crowd.

"Then we must not hurry it or make it worse by sudden action. If Skelly is punished, the mountaineers will say it is

political. I appeal to you, Dr. Russell, to sustain me."

The white head of the principal showed above the crowd.

"Judge Kendrick is right," he said. "Skelly must be permitted to go. His action, in fact, was due to the strained

conditions that have long prevailed among us, and was precipitated by the alarming message that has come today. For
the sake of peace, we must let him go."

"All right, then," said Allison, "but he goes without his pistol."

Skelly was put upon his mountain pony, and he rode willingly away amid the snow and the coming dusk, carrying,

despite his release, a bitter heart into the mountains, and a tale that would inflame the jealousy with which upland
regarded lowland.

The crowd dispersed. Gardner returned to his office, and Harry went home. He lived in the best house in or about

Pendleton and his father was its wealthiest citizen. George Kenton, having inherited much land in Kentucky, and two or
three plantations further south had added to his property by good management. A strong supporter of slavery, actual
contact with the institution on a large scale in the Gulf States had not pleased him, and he had sold his property there,
reinvesting the money in his native and, as he believed, more solid state. His title of colonel was real. A graduate of
West Point, he had fought bravely with Scott in all the battles in the Valley of Mexico, but now retired and a widower,
he lived in Pendleton with Harry, his only child.

Harry approached the house slowly. He knew that his father was a man of strong temper and he wondered how he

would take the news from Charleston. All the associations of Colonel Kenton were with the extreme Southern wing,
and his influence upon his son was powerful.

But the Pendleton home, standing just beyond the town, gave forth only brightness and welcome. The house itself,

large and low, built massively of red brick, stood on the crest of a gentle slope in two acres of ground. The clipped
cones of pine trees adorned the slopes, and made parallel rows along the brick walk, leading to the white portico that
formed the entrance to the house. Light shone from a half dozen windows.

It seemed fine and glowing to Harry. His father loved his home, and so did he. The twilight had now darkened into

night and the snow still drove, but the house stood solid and square to wind and winter, and the flame from its windows
made broad bands of red and gold across the snow. Harry went briskly up the walk and then stood for a few moments
in the portico, shaking the snow off his overcoat and looking back at the town, which lay in a warm cluster in the hollow
below. Many lights twinkled there, and it occurred to Harry that they would twinkle later than usual that night.

He opened the door, hung his hat and overcoat in the hall, and entered the large apartment which his father and he

habitually used as a reading and sitting room. It was more than twenty feet square, with a lofty ceiling. A home-made
carpet, thick, closely woven, and rich in colors covered the floor. Around the walls were cases containing books,
mostly in rich bindings and nearly all English classics. American work was scarcely represented at all. The books read
most often by Colonel Kenton were the novels of Walter Scott, whom he preferred greatly to Dickens. Scott always
wrote about gentlemen. A great fire of hickory logs blazed on the wide hearth.

Colonel Kenton was alone in the room. He stood at the edge of the hearth, with his back to the fire and his hands

crossed behind him. His tanned face was slightly pale, and Harry saw that he had been subjected to great nervous
excitement, which had not yet wholly abated.

The colonel was a tall man, broad of chest, but lean and muscular. He regarded his son attentively, and his eyes

seemed to ask a question.

"Yes," said Harry, although his father had not spoken a word. "I've heard of it, and I've already seen one of its

results."

"What is that?" asked Colonel Kenton quickly.

"As I came through town Bill Skelly, a mountaineer, shot at Arthur Travers. It came out of hot words over the

news from Charleston. Nobody was hurt, and they've sent Skelly on his pony toward his mountains."

Colonel Kenton's face clouded.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I fear that Travers will be much too free with stinging remarks. It's a time when men should

control their tongues. Do you be careful with yours. You're a youth in years, but you're a man in size, and you should be
a man in thought, too. You and I have been close together, and I have trusted you, even when you were a little boy."

"It's so, father," replied Harry, with affection and gratitude.

"And I'm going to trust you yet further. It may be that I shall give you a task requiring great skill and energy."

The colonel looked closely at his son, and he gave silent approval to the tall, well-knit form, and the alert, eager

face.

"We'll have supper presently," he said, "and then we will talk with visitors. Some you know and some you don't.

One of them, who has come far, is already in the house."

Harry's eyes showed surprise, but he knew better than to ask questions. The colonel had carried his military

training into private life.

"He is a distant relative of ours, very distant, but a relative still," continued Colonel Kenton. "You will meet him at

supper. Be ready in a half hour."

The dinner of city life was still called supper in the South, and Harry hastened to his room to prepare. His heart

began to throb with excitement. Now they were to have visitors at night and a mysterious stranger was there. He felt

dimly the advance of great events.

Harry Kenton was a normal and healthy boy, but the discussions, the debates, and the passions sweeping over the

Union throughout the year had sifted into Pendleton also. The news today had merely struck fire to tinder prepared
already, and, infused with the spirit of youth, he felt much excitement but no depression. Making a careful toilet he
descended to the drawing room a little before the regular time. Although he was early, his father was there before him,
standing in his customary attitude with his back to the hearth, and his hands clasped behind him.

"Our guest will be down in a few minutes," said Colonel Kenton. "He comes from Charleston and his name is

Raymond Louis Bertrand. I will explain how he is related to us."

He gave a chain of cousins extending on either side from the Kenton family and the Bertrand family until they joined

in the middle. It was a slender tie of kinship, but it sufficed in the South. As he finished, Bertrand himself came in, and
was introduced formally to his Kentucky cousin. Harry would have taken him for a Frenchman, and he was, in very
truth, largely of French blood. His black eyes and hair, his swarthy complexion, gleaming white teeth and quick, volatile
manner showed a descendant of France who had come from the ancient soil by way of Hayti, and the great negro
rebellion to the coast of South Carolina. He seemed strange and foreign to Harry, and yet he liked him.

"And this is my young cousin, the one who is likely to be so zealous for our cause," he said, smiling at Harry with

flashing black eyes. "You are a stalwart lad. They grow bigger and stronger here than on our warm Carolina coast."

"Raymond arrived only three hours ago," said Colonel Kenton in explanation. "He came directly from Charleston,

leaving only three hours after the resolution in favor of secession was adopted."

"And a rough journey it was," said Bertrand vivaciously. "I was rattled and shaken by the trains, and I made some

of the connections by horseback over the wild hills. Then it was a long ride through the snow to your hospitable home
here, my good cousin, Colonel Kenton. But I had minute directions, and no one noticed the stranger who came so
quietly around the town, and then entered your house."

Harry said nothing but watched him intently. Bertrand spoke with a rapid lightness and grace and an abundance of

gesture, to which he was not used in Kentucky. He ate plentifully, and, although his manners were delicate, Harry felt to
an increasing degree his foreign aspect and spirit. He did not wonder at it when he learned later that Bertrand, besides
being chiefly of French blood, had also been educated in Paris.

"Was there much enthusiasm in South Carolina when the state seceded, Raymond?" asked Colonel Kenton.

"I saw the greatest joy and confidence everywhere," he replied, the color flaming through his olive face. "The whole

state is ablaze. Charleston is the heart and soul of our new alliance. Rhett and Yancey of Alabama, and the great
orators make the souls of men leap. Ah, sir, if you could only have been in Charleston in the course of recent months! If
you could have heard the speakers! If you could have seen how the great and righteous Calhoun's influence lives after
him! And then the writers! That able newspaper, the Mercury, has thundered daily for our cause. Simms, the novelist,
and Timrod and Hayne, the poets have written for it. Let the cities of the North boast of their size and wealth, but they
cannot match Charleston in culture and spirit and vivacity!"

Harry saw that Bertrand felt and believed every word he said, and his enthusiasm was communicated to the

colonel, whose face flushed, and to Harry, too, whose own heart was beating faster.

"It was a great deed!" exclaimed Colonel Kenton. "South Carolina has always dared to speak her mind, but here in

Kentucky some of the cold North's blood flows in our veins and we pause to calculate and consider. We must hasten
events. Now, Raymond, we will go into the library. Our friends will be here in a half hour. Harry, you are to stay with
us. I told you that you are to be trusted."

They left the table, and went into the great room where the fire had been built anew and was casting a ruddy

welcome through the windows. The two men sat down before the blaze and each fell silent, engrossed in his thoughts.
Harry felt a pleased excitement. Here was a great and mysterious affair, but he was going to have admittance to the
heart of it. He walked to the window, lifted the curtain and looked out. A slender erect figure was already coming up
the walk, and he recognized Travers.

Travers knocked at the door and was received cordially. Colonel Kenton introduced Bertrand, saying:

"The messenger from the South."

Travers shook hands and nodded also to signify that he understood. Then came Culver, the state senator from the

district, a man of middle years, bulky, smooth shaven, and oratorical. He was followed soon by Bracken, a tobacco
farmer on a great scale, Judge Kendrick, Reid and Wayne, both lawyers, and several others, all of wealth or of
influence in that region. Besides Harry, there were ten in the room.

"I believe that we are all here now," said Colonel Kenton. "I keep my son with us because, for reasons that I will

explain later, I shall nominate him for the task that is needed."

"We do not question your judgment, colonel," said Senator Culver. "He is a strong and likely lad. But I suggest that

we go at once to business. Mr. Bertrand, you will inform us what further steps are to be taken by South Carolina and
her neighboring states. South Carolina may set an example, but if the others do not follow, she will merely be a
sacrifice."

Bertrand smiled. His smile always lighted up his olive face in a wonderful way. It was a smile, too, of supreme

confidence.

"Do not fear," he said. "Alabama, Mississippi, Florida and Louisiana are ready. We have word from them all. It is

only a matter of a few days until every state in the lower south goes out, but we want also and we need greatly those on
the border, famous states like your Kentucky and Virginia. Do you not see how you are threatened? With the triumph
of the rail-splitter, Lincoln, the seat of power is transferred to the North. It is not alone a question of slavery. The
balance of the Union is destroyed. The South loses leadership. Her population is not increasing rapidly, and hereafter
she will merely hold the stirrup while the North sits in the saddle."

A murmur arose from the men. More than one clenched his hands, until the nails pressed into the flesh. Harry, still

standing by the window, felt the influence of the South Carolinian's words more deeply perhaps than any other. The
North appeared to him cold, jealous, and vengeful.

"You are right about Kentucky and Virginia," said Senator Culver. "The secession of two such strong states would

strike terror in the North. It would influence the outside world, and we would be in a far better position for war, if it
should come. Governor Magoffin will have to call a special session of the legislature, and I think there will be enough of
us in both Senate and House to take Kentucky out."

Bertrand's dark face glowed.

"You must do it! You must do it!" he exclaimed. "And if you do our cause is won!"

There was a thoughtful silence, broken at last by Colonel Kenton, who turned an inquiring eye upon Bertrand.

"I wish to ask you about the Knights of the Golden Circle," he said. "I hear that they are making great headway in

the Gulf States."

Raymond hesitated a moment. It seemed that he, too, felt for the first time a difference between himself and these

men about him who were so much less demonstrative than he. But he recovered his poise quickly.

"I speak to you frankly," he replied. "When our new confederation is formed, it is likely to expand. A hostile union

will lie across our northern border, but to the south the way is open. There is our field. Spain grows weak and the great
island of Cuba will fall from her grasp. Mexico is torn by one civil war after another. It is a grand country, and it would
prosper mightily in strong hands. Beyond lie the unstable states of Central America, also awaiting good rulers."

Colonel Kenton frowned and the lawyers looked doubtful.

"I can't say that I like your prospect," the colonel said. "It seems to me that your knights of the Golden Circle

meditate a great slave empire which will eat its way even into South America. Slavery is not wholly popular here. Henry
Clay long ago wished it to be abolished, and his is a mighty name among us. It would be best to say little in Kentucky of
the Knights of the Golden Circle. Our climate is a little too cold for such a project."

Bertrand bit his lip. Swift and volatile, he showed disappointment, but, still swift and volatile, he recovered quickly.

"I have no doubt that you are right, Colonel Kenton," he said, in the tone of one who conforms gracefully, "and I

shall be careful when I go to Frankfort with Senator Culver to say nothing about it."

But Harry, who watched him all the time, read tenacity and purpose in his eyes. This man would not relinquish his

great southern dream, a dream of vast dominion, and he had a powerful society behind him.

"What news, then, will you send to Charleston?" asked Bertrand at length. "Will you tell her that Kentucky, the

state of great names, will stand beside her?"

"Such a message shall be carried to her," replied Colonel Kenton, speaking for them all, "and I propose that my

son Harry be the messenger. These are troubled times, gentlemen, and full of peril. We dare not trust to the mails, and a
lad, carrying letters, would arouse the least suspicion. He is strong and resourceful. I, his father, should know best and I
am willing to devote him to the cause."

Harry started when he heard the words of his father, and his heart gave a great leap of mingled surprise and joy.

Such a journey, such an enterprise, made an instant appeal to his impulsive and daring spirit. But he did not speak,
waiting upon the words of his elders. All of them looked at him, and it seemed to Harry that they were measuring him,

both body and mind.

"I have known your boy since his birth," said Senator Culver, "and he is all that you say. There is none stronger and

better. The choice is good."

"Good! Aye, good indeed!" said the impetuous Bertrand. "How they will welcome him in Charleston!"

"Then, gentlemen," said Colonel Kenton, very soberly, "you are all agreed that my son shall carry to South Carolina

the message that Kentucky will follow her out of the Union?"

"We are," they said, all together.

"I shall be glad and proud to go," said Harry, speaking for the first time.

"I knew it without asking you," said Colonel Kenton. "I suggest to you, friends, that he start before dawn, and that

he go to Winton instead of the nearest station. We wish to avoid observation and suspicion. The fewer questions he has
to answer, the better it will be for all of us."

They agreed with him again, and, in order that he might be fresh and strong for his journey, Harry was sent to his

bedroom. Everything would be made ready for him, and Colonel Kenton would call him at the appointed hour. As he
withdrew he bade them in turn good night, and they returned his courtesy gravely.

It was one thing to go to his room, but it was another to sleep. He undressed and sat on the edge of the bed. Only

when he was alone did he realize the tremendous change that had come into his life. Nor into his life alone, but into the
lives of all he knew, and of millions more.

It had ceased snowing and the wind was still. The earth was clothed in deep and quiet white, and the pines stood

up, rows of white cones, silvered by the moonlight. Nothing moved out there. No sound came. He felt awed by the
world of night, and the mysterious future which must be full of strange and great events.

He lay down between the covers and, although sleep was long in coming, it came at last and it was without dreams.

CHAPTER II

A COURIER TO THE SOUTH

Harry was awakened by his father shaking his shoulder. It was yet dark outside, but a small lamp burned on his

table.

"It is time for you to go, Harry," said Colonel Kenton, somewhat unsteadily. "Your horse, bridle and saddle on, is

waiting. Your breakfast has been cooked for you, and everything else is ready."

Harry dressed rapidly in his heaviest and warmest clothing. He and his father ate breakfast by lamplight, and when

he finished it was not yet dawn. Then the Colonel himself brought him his overcoat, comforter, overshoes, and fur cap.

"The saddlebags are already on your horse," he said, "and they are filled with the things you will need. In this

pocket-book you will find five hundred dollars, and here is, also, an order on a bank in Charleston for more. See that
you keep both money and order safely. I trust to you to spend the money in the proper manner."

Harry put both in an inside pocket of his waistcoat, and then his father handed him a heavy sealed letter.

"This you must guard with your life," he said. "It is not addressed to anybody, but you can give it to Senator

Yancey, who is probably in Charleston, or Governor Pickens, of South Carolina, or General Beauregard, who, I
understand, is coming to command the troops there, and whom I knew in former days, or to General Ripley. It contains
Kentucky's promise to South Carolina, and it is signed by many of us. And now, Harry, let prudence watch over action.
It is no common errand upon which you ride."

The colonel walked with him to the gate where the horse stood. Harry did not know who had brought the animal

there, but he believed that his father had done so with his own hand. The boy sprang into the saddle, Colonel Kenton
gave him a strong grasp of the hand, undertook to say something but, as he did so, the words choked in his throat, and
he walked hastily toward the house.

Harry spoke to his horse, but a hundred yards away, before he came to the first curve in the road, he stopped and

looked back. Colonel Kenton was standing in the doorway, his figure made bright in the moonlight. Harry waved his
hand and a hand was waved in return. Tears arose to his own eyes, but he was youth in the saddle, with the world

before him, and the mist was gone quickly.

The snow was six or eight inches deep, and lay unbroken in the road. But the horse was powerful, shod carefully

for snow and ice, and Harry had been almost from infancy an expert rider. His spirits rose. He had no fear of the
stillness and the dark. But one could scarcely call it the dark, since brilliant stars rode high in a bright blue heaven, and
the forest on either side of him was a vast and intricate tracery of white touched with silver.

He examined his saddle bags, and found in them a silver-mounted pistol and cartridges which he transferred to his

belt. The line of the mountains lay near the road, and he remembered Bill Skelly and those like him. The weapon gave
him new strength. Skelly and his comrades might come on any pretext they chose.

The road lay straight toward the south, edged on either side by forest. Now and then he passed a silent farm

house, set back among the trees, and once a dog barked, but there was no sound, save the tread of the horse's feet in
the snow, and his occasional puff when he blew the steam from his nostrils. Harry did not feel the cold. The heavy
overcoat protected his body, and the strong action of the heart, pouring the blood in a full tide through his veins, kept
him warm.

The east whitened. Dawn came. Thin spires of smoke began to rise from distant houses in the woods or fields.

Harry was already many miles from Pendleton, and then something rose in his throat again. He remembered his father
standing in the portico, and, strangely enough, the Tacitus lying in his locked desk at the academy. But he crushed it
down. His abounding youth made him consider as weak and unworthy, an emotion which a man would merely have
reckoned as natural.

The station at Winton was a full twenty miles from Pendleton and, with such heavy snow, Harry did not expect to

arrive until late in the afternoon. Nor would there be any need for him to get there earlier, as no train for Nashville
reached that place until half past six in the evening. His horse showed no signs of weariness, but he checked his speed,
and went on at an easy walk.

The road curved nearer to a line of blue hills, which sloped gradually upward for scores of miles, until they became

mountains. All were clothed with forest, and every tree was heavy with snow. A line between the trees showed where a
path turned off from the main road and entered the hills. As Harry approached it, he heard the crunching of horses'
hoofs in the snow. A warning instinct caused him to urge his own horse forward, just as four riders came into view.

He saw that the men in the saddles, who were forty or fifty yards away, were mountaineers, like Skelly. They wore

fur caps; heavy blanket shawls were drooped about their shoulders and every one carried a rifle. As soon as they saw
the boy they shouted to him to halt.

Harry's alert senses took alarm. They must have gained some knowledge of his errand and its nature. Perhaps

word had been sent from Pendleton by those who were arraying themselves on the other side that he be intercepted.
When they cried to him to stop, he struck his horse sharply, shouted to him, and bent far over against his neck. Colonel
Kenton had chosen well. The horse responded instantly. He seemed to gather his whole powerful frame compactly
together, and shot forward. The nearest mountaineer fired, but the bullet merely whistled where the horse and rider had
been, and sent snow flying from the bushes on the other side of the road. A second rifle cracked but it, too, missed the
flying target, and the mountaineers, turning into the main road, gave pursuit.

Harry felt a cold shiver along his spine when the leading man pulled trigger. It was the first time in his life that any

one had ever fired upon him, and the shiver returned with the second shot. And since they had missed, confidence
came. He knew that they could not overtake him, and they would not dare to pursue him long. He glanced back. They
were a full hundred yards in the rear, riding all four abreast. He remembered his own pistol, and, drawing it from his
belt, he sent a bullet toward the pursuit. It was too long a range for serious work, but he intended it as a warning that
he, too, was armed and would fight.

The road still ran through the forest with the hills close on the left. Up went the sun, casting a golden glory over the

white earth. Harry beheld afar only a single spire of smoke. The houses were few in that region, and he might go four or
five miles without seeing a single human being, save those who pursued. But he was not afraid. His confidence lay
chiefly in the powerful animal that he rode, and he saw the distance between him and the four men lengthen from a
hundred to two hundred yards. One of them fired another shot at him, but it only shook the snow from a tree fifteen feet
away. He could not keep from sending back a taunting cry.

On went the sun up the curve of the heavens, and the brilliant light grew. The forest thinned away. The line of hills

retreated, and before him lay fields, extending to both right and left. The eye ranged over a great distance and he
counted the smoke of five farm houses. He believed that the men would not pursue him into the open country, but he
urged his horse to greater speed, and did not turn in his saddle for a quarter of an hour. When he finally looked back
the mountaineers were gone. He could see clearly a half-mile, and he knew now that his surmise had come true. They
dared to pursue only in the forest, and having failed, they would withdraw into the hills.

He drew his horse down to a walk, patted his shoulder, and spoke to him words of approval. He was not sorry

now that he had passed through the adventure. It would harden him to risks and dangers to come. He made up his
mind, also, to say nothing about it. He could send a warning back from Winton, but the men in Pendleton knew how to
protect themselves, and the message might fall into wrong hands.

His journey continued in such peace that it was hard to believe men had fired upon him, and in the middle of the

afternoon he reached Winton. He left his horse, saddle and bridle at a livery stable, stating that they would be called for
by Colonel Kenton, who was known throughout the region, and sought food at the crude little wooden hotel. He was
glad that he saw no one whom he knew, because, after the fashion of the country, they would ask him many questions,
and he felt relief, too, when the train arrived.

Dark had already come when Harry entered the car. There were no coaches for sleepers, and he must make

himself comfortable as best he could on the red plush seat, sprinkled thickly with ashes and cinders from the engine.
Fortunately, he had the seat alone, although there were many people in the car.

The train, pouring out a huge volume of black smoke, pulled out of the station with a great clatter that never

ceased. Now Harry felt an ebb of the spirits and melancholy. He was leaving behind Pendleton and all that he had
known. In the day the excitement, the cold air, and the free world about him had kept him up. Now the swaying and
jarring of the train, crude like most others in that early time of railways, gave him a sense of illness. The window at his
elbow rattled incessantly, and the ashes and cinders sifted in, blackening his face and hands. Three or four smoking
lamps, hung from the ceiling, lighted the car dimly,...